


Nights at the Opera

by fengirl88



Series: The Old Bad Songs and other stories [7]
Category: Maurice (1987), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover Pairing, M/M, Operas, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sequel to that conversation about opera in Beginning To See The Light:</p><p>“You're not taking me to the Opera though,” Lestrade says warningly.</p><p>“Not on a <i>first date</i>,” Maurice says, pretending to be shocked. Then grins and says “Don't worry, we'll take it slow. We don't have to go all the way till you're ready for it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of this began as a separate 221b ficlet (usual rules, 221 words, last word must begin with b).

Lestrade's holding hands in the back row, a thing he hasn't done since he was seventeen and illegal.

“If you really hate it we can leave at the interval,” Maurice says, pressing a kiss against his ear.

 _Glyndebourne on Screen._ A compromise. No dressing-up. No pompous prats showing off in the Crush Bar or whatever it's called. People nattering and eating popcorn during the trailer.

Definitely not _going all the way._

Still, Lestrade braces himself.

The music's – odd, but not unpleasant. Set's fucking amazing, this huge incredible claustrophobic _ship_. Full of sailors, Christ, _size_ of that chorus. Must cost a _fortune._

And then the new men come aboard. And the one this is all about, see that even before he opens his mouth, is so vulnerable and full of _life_ you can't take your eyes off him. Nor can that fucked-up closet case or the sodding captain who'll destroy him between them.

Lestrade's hooked, gaping like a kid as the story unfolds. Wants to shout at the screen but he doesn't, even when the beautiful boy calls out a final blessing on the man he loves, the man who's doomed him to hang.

“Is it _all_ like that?” he asks Maurice afterwards, still shaking.

“That good? No,” Maurice says, smiling. “Not even Britten. But I knew you'd never resist _Billy Budd._ "


	2. Chapter 2

Going live is _still_ not going all the way, Lestrade tells himself. Though you can't just walk out of this the way you could at the cinema. However much you want to.  

Apart from anything else, they're sitting so close to the stage it would feel like becoming part of the action. Not that _anyone's_ that far from the stage here. No wonder it was sold out; Maurice only just managed to get returns.  

Odd place to go to the opera, a disused chapel. Sitting in _pews_. That and Mozart have got him quite badly spooked, feeling like he's not allowed to swear even in his head.  

 _Bloody_ Sunday school has a lot to answer for.  

Though it turns out it's not just the setting that's making him think of that.      

  
“It's a shoestring production,” Maurice had said. “Opposite of Glyndebourne really. Apparently they don't even have a chorus.”  

“Oh, and they get away with that, do they?” Lestrade asked sceptically. _One born every minute_.  

“Well, the chorus is hardly _in_ it,” Maurice said, considering. “One short burst of saying military life is wonderful and then the same thing again a few minutes later. I remember a student production in Cambridge that just used a gramophone record for those bits.”  

“ _Gramophone_ ,” Lestrade said mockingly, ruffling Maurice's hair. “You're a throwback, that's what you are.”  

“It's had good reviews,” Maurice said, leaning in to kiss Lestrade's neck.“And I've seen the baritone before – he's quite charming.”  

“All right,” Lestrade groaned, “you win. But if it's as arse-achingly dull as all the other Mozart I've ever heard we are _not_ going to any more of this stuff.”  

“Mm,” Maurice said non-committally, sliding his hand between Lestrade's thighs. At which point Lestrade had become distracted and forgotten all about opera.    

  
So here they are at the sold-out, returns-only, edgy _Così fan Tutte_. Six singers and a piano. _Edgy_ apparently means the pianist's in black shirt and black jeans and everyone else is wearing pyjamas. No set to speak of, just a bit of fold-up garden furniture and a trellis. Singers are all quite young; couple of them are still studying, though as Maurice explained opera singers go on studying later than most. Waiting for the voice to _settle_. Like a pint of Guinness or something.  

 _Not_ a good idea to start thinking about that in the middle of Act One. No chance of a drink for _ages_ , and this plot is pissing him off quite severely. Has been ever since he read the synopsis in the programme. Why doesn't that interfering old git just let the poor stupid bastards get on with being deluded about their girlfriends? What good's it going to do them to find out the truth?  

Lestrade can imagine Donovan having a few crisp things to say about the way _this_ one's shaping up: _typical sexist misogynistic crap_. Even the title gives it away: All Women Do That. The old git says a faithful woman is like the phoenix, i.e. there's only one in the world and even that's a bloody myth. And then the _idiots_ go and bet him their women are different. Cue pretend departure and return with unconvincing false moustaches to woo each other's girl. Bloody hilarious.  

But _this_ bit isn't Mozart, is it?, Lestrade thinks, suddenly sitting up and taking notice. He _knows_ this.  

Christ, this takes him back. _Sunday Bloody Sunday_ : first film he ever saw with a gay love scene in it. Another sodding triangle. Glenda Jackson, Peter Finch and – what was his name, the gorgeous young one who played the artist? – Murray Head. Wonder what happened to _him_.  

It was part of the soundtrack, the same music that's playing right now, beautiful and sad, three voices together. Never knew what they were singing about. Wishing the boys calm seas and soft winds for their imaginary voyage, apparently. Waste of a good tune.  

He remembers that film so clearly, the excitement of it, seeing the older man and the younger man kissing and embracing. Watched it on television late one night when his parents were out, his heart pounding in case they came back and found him in front of it.  

Of course the poor old bugger of a doctor Finch played was doomed as well as closeted. _What happens when you get mixed up with a gorgeous much younger man_ , Lestrade thinks, feeling a brief twinge about the whole Sherlock thing. Or worse, a gorgeous much younger _bisexual_ man, like in the film. At least _that_ hadn't been a complication with Sherlock. Bloody Watson was bad enough.  

Seeing that film could have gone either way. So to speak. Usual miserable bloody outcome for the gay character so if you paid attention to the plot it could fuck you up quite badly, make you think that's how your life would be. On the other hand, the straight love affair got fucked up too; equal opportunities ahead of its time. And there was a sort of dignity in Finch's character, even at the end, where he's talking straight to camera. Acknowledging that the young man hadn't been what he was looking for all his life, saying “He's not it ... but something. We were something.”  

Somehow, Lestrade _hadn't_ been depressed by the ending; still too excited by the kiss and thinking _It's not just me then_. Shit, how could he have forgotten that? One of those moments of recognition that changes the whole course of your life.  

It was the Finch character who'd loved opera, of course. First time you hear that music is when he puts the record on, but it keeps coming back all the way through. By the end it's all about loss and the acceptance of loss. Makes sense, really. You can break your heart about being disillusioned, not getting what you'd dreamed of, or you can move on, knowing things you didn't know before, and probably still dreaming even though you know you shouldn't.  

He'd thought of Finch's character as an old man then, though he was only supposed to be in his forties. Read somewhere it was supposed to be Alan Bates, who would have been the right age for it. Round about Lestrade's sort of age, and Maurice's. Lestrade winces a bit, then grins.  

He sneaks a glance at Maurice, sitting rapt and slightly flushed, high on the music. Waits till the trio is over before he puts his hand on Maurice's, not wanting to break the spell for him. Maurice looks at him questioningly, anxiously, in case Lestrade's hating the whole thing. Seems reassured by what he sees. Lestrade leaves his hand where it is. It feels good. Maurice's breathing quickens a little and his colour deepens. All quite promising for when they go back to Lestrade's afterwards.  

Lestrade really _had_ thought this evening might be the end of their nights at the opera. It's not looking that way now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Schlesinger's film _Sunday Bloody Sunday_ (1971) is no longer up on YouTube, but there is a DVD of it, and there are numerous recordings of _Così fan Tutte_ , some of which (including the trio) can be found on YouTube.


	3. Chapter 3

"Christ, I'd like to get my hands on that bastard," Lestrade hisses.

"I'll tell Gerry you said so next time I see him," Maurice says.  "I'm sure he'll be delighted."

On Maurice's _very_ fancy TV, Countess Almaviva holds her hand to her cheek where her husband's just slapped her.

"You _know_ him?" Lestrade says.

"He was in my year at King's," Maurice says.  "Nice man.  We don't see much of each other these days, but he's always friendly."

Lestrade's still getting used to this sort of thing from Maurice, but it's the first time it's happened with an _opera singer_.  Never mind one as scarily, _hatefully_ good as Gerald Finley's currently being.

Another night at the opera.  Mozart again, since the _Così_ outing was such an unexpected success.  But this time Maurice had suggested a night _in_.  DVD, nice bottle of wine (which from Maurice means, as usual, a _very_ nice bottle of wine), and a light supper so they wouldn't be too sleepy to watch the opera.

Lestrade's not a bad cook himself but he can't keep up with Maurice, and quite enjoys not even trying.  _Wash_ up after him, sure, though it would be easier to do that if Maurice didn't take the opportunity to kiss the back of Lestrade's neck when he's up to the elbows in soapy water.  Managed not to break anything, though, and now they're lounging comfortably against each other on the sofa watching _The Marriage of Figaro_.

Which is all about class, right from the overture.  Big room full of servants busy with this and that: stretching out their hands for inspection by the butler or whatever he is, mopping the floor, carrying baskets of bread, or slop-pails, or eating apples, larking about and being cheeky and getting told off, flirting, quarrelling, teasing.  Must be a fucking _enormous_ house, staff that large.  So it's no wonder the master thinks he's God Almighty.  A God Almighty with a divine right to shag any woman he fancies, including Figaro's bride-to-be Susanna on her wedding night.  Shuttles between neglecting his Countess and psychotic jealous rage if he thinks she's so much as looked at anyone else. 

"You don't usually get a production quite this dark," Maurice says, as the Count works himself up to a fever pitch of rage and lust again, "but I think it works better this way."

"Mm," Lestrade says, shifting awkwardly.  Watching a vicious head-case like that really shouldn't be erotic, however good the singer is.  _Particularly_ if the singer's an old college chum of Maurice's.  Fuck.

"Are you in trouble?" Maurice asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Don't you _dare_ say anything about this to him," Lestrade growls.

Maurice looks surprised.  "No, of course not."  He glances at Lestrade, assessing the state of the problem.  Picks up the remote.

"Pause or stop?" Maurice asks, pushing his free hand through Lestrade's hair.

"Stop," Lestrade says thickly.  Pause isn't going to be enough.

Another good thing about a light supper: doesn't get in the way if your opera viewing leads to something requiring more active participation.

"You know what I'd really like to do with you?" Maurice says, some time later when they've put the DVD back on.  Amongst other things.

"No, what?" Lestrade asks.  He's still feeling a bit dizzy after that rather energetic interlude, and he's certainly nowhere near ready for another go, so he hopes whatever Maurice has in mind isn't too immediate.

" _Rosenkavalier_ ," Maurice says, looking dreamy.

Oh.  _More_ opera.

"Another DVD?" Lestrade asks hopefully, leaning heavily against him.

"I was thinking more of the real thing," Maurice says.  "There's a new production coming on at Covent Garden."

Covent Garden?  Bloody hell.  If that isn't going all the way, Lestrade doesn't know what _is_.

"It's a _very_ sexy piece of music," Maurice says persuasively, and kisses Lestrade's neck. "Always does terrible things to me."

Which does sound quite appealing.  But Lestrade knows there's a catch.

"Covent Garden," he says.  "Dressing up, right?  I don't have that sort of gear and I don't want it."

Maurice looks crestfallen.  Looks like he's kicking himself as well, thinking he's blown it by making his move too soon.

"I know it's not your sort of thing," he says apologetically.  "I shouldn't push you.  I'm sorry."

Lestrade kisses him, to show there's no harm done. 

Maurice kisses him back enthusiastically.

On the TV, the opera carries on regardless.  Lestrade's surprised to find he's getting to like Mozart, though he suspects that may be because it's starting to have some very pleasant associations.

Getting near the end now.  In the garden of the château, Susanna sings her song of desire, calling her love to come to her in the beauty of the night.  Of course her husband's overhearing the whole thing and getting the wrong end of the stick, typical stupid fucking operatic misunderstanding, but bloody hell the song is _gorgeous_.  Maurice's arm is around Lestrade, Maurice's breath is stirring his hair, and Lestrade feels so relaxed he's almost boneless.

"All right then," he says.

"All right what?" Maurice murmurs into his hair.

"All right, _Rosenkavalier_ ," Lestrade says.  "Covent Garden.  Penguin suit.  Whatever you want."

Maurice hugs him tightly, like he can't quite believe his luck.

"If you're sure," he says, a bit shakily.

"Still don't really know why it gets you going like that," Lestrade says.

" _Rosenkavalier_ and you in black tie?" Maurice says.  "I may spontaneously combust."  He groans.

Lestrade picks up the remote and says "Pause or stop?"

"Leave it on," Maurice says hoarsely, pulling him closer.

Happy endings all round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What they're watching: David McVicar's production of _Le Nozze di Figaro_. Susanna's song is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X6oPxsb4BI).


End file.
